23

“All Islamist groups are strings on the same guitar, strumming variations of the same theme.”—Tarek al-Masri

After making sure the door was tightly shut, I muttered, “In the name of God the Just and Merciful, there is no might or power but unto God,” and switched on the bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. I listened to the dogs barking in the distance, the sound of running feet and indistinct curses, and objects being struck by flying stones, the last an empty garbage bin. Some intermittent howls approached, then segued into rhythmic barks. I stood staring at the wooden table in front of me as I waited for the alley to quiet down. After the sounds of the dogs faded, I set to work.

I made a quick inventory of the items I’d asked them to fetch. They were all there. After lighting the small spirit lamp, I crushed twenty aspirin pills in a mortar and pestle and put some of the powder in a glass vial. Then I added a teaspoon of water, swilled the liquid around to mix it, added half a cup of alcohol, set the vial on top of the gas flame, and brought the mixture to a boil while stirring. The heat licked my face. My hand trembled slightly as I carefully added some more aspirin powder, bit by bit. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and cast about right and left until I found the tablespoon, which I used to add the ammonium nitrate. The liquid gradually turned from pale yellow to red. I lowered the heat until the color returned to orange. I glanced at my watch. The blast from a nearby speaker sounding the call to prayer nearly ruptured my eardrums. I could feel pearls of sweat forming on my forehead again. I took the vial off the flame, let the mixture cool, and poured it into another a container, which I’d covered with filter paper. I poured the orange granules that had collected on the paper into a strainer and washed them under cold water. Then I dried them by brushing them with the hot gusts of a hair dryer.

I jumped at the sound of a single knock on the door. The emir walked in, followed by three of his acolytes. His eyes shifted back and forth between the orange grains and my face.

“It’s ready,” I said. “All I have to do is add the gunpowder and nails, and adjust the timer mechanism.”

The sheikh broke into a bright smile. Then his face snapped back to serious. Pushing me aside, he signaled to one of the acolytes to take my place. “Finish it up,” he told him. To me he said, “The next time you do this, make sure Hamza here is with you so he can watch and learn. ‘The best among you are those who transmit their knowledge to the people.’”

A couple of years ago I would have objected, but not anymore. They’re a bunch of semi-educated morons, unable to learn a thing. They’ll try to make one on their own, botch it, and come back to me because they needed my expertise. I’m the only one who knows how to manufacture these highly explosive and incendiary pellets. They’re called milenite and they’re used to make fire bombs. They’re one of the favors for which I am indebted to Abu Ayman, who taught me the process. I left the room flicking my prayer beads. One of the acolytes invited me to perform ablutions. I tapped my chest twice, signaling that I’d already done mine.

Our assignment, this time, was to plant the bomb directly in front of the main door of the Cairo Security Directorate, but we knew from our surveillance work that this would be impossible because it was so heavily guarded and because there were dozens of plainclothesmen mingling with pedestrians in the vicinity. When Hamza finished assembling the bomb, I proposed an alternative plan and watched their eyes pop out of their sockets in admiration.

They carried out my suggestion to the letter. We attached the bomb to an old stolen car, after changing its license plates. Hamza drove it to the Islamic Art Museum directly opposite the Security Directorate, parked it, and left. The rest of the plan depended on the Interior Ministry, because they would be the ones who would move the bomb into the interior of the building. From our surveillance work, I’d learned that there was a small garage behind the building. It belonged to the traffic authority. It was where they towed cars for violating parking regulations and where they kept them until the owners paid the required fines. As I’d anticipated, the tow truck came rumbling along after about a quarter of an hour, lifted the front end of the car, and towed it toward the garage. But Thanks to Hamza’s ineptness—he’d miscalculated the ratio of gunpowder and nails to the milenite pellets—the explosion didn’t cause anywhere near the impact it should have. The radius was relatively small, and instead of hitting the building its force was directed outward, toward the street in front of the garage entrance. So no one was killed, only a few cars were burned, and a few dozen police and security soldiers were injured from glass shards or burns. But to every cloud there’s a silver lining: this incident gave me a great inspiration.

Hamza and companions returned with their tails between their legs to receive a dressing down from their emir. “God decreed and so it came to pass,” they pleaded. “They strive for nought but to rely on others,” I put in, alluding to scripture. The emir was forced to take my side, even though he despised the ground I walked on. Taking advantage of the situation, I insisted that from now on I had to work alone, in the manufacturing process as well as in the reconnaissance work and surveillance of the target. They agreed to the first condition, but not to the second and third. It wasn’t that I really minded their presence during stakeouts. I was waiting for the right moment to make my bolt for freedom and turn them in, though I still hadn’t worked out exactly how I was going to do that.

“It’s Maison Thomas on 26 July Street this week,” the emir said as he handed me a white slip of paper with the assignment. I didn’t need it. I was very familiar with the address and I had plenty of memories from there. I felt a spasm in my chest as I burnt the paper.

I parked my motorcycle some distance away, crossed 26 July, and went the rest of the way on foot. I was now on my third recon trip, but the first in daytime, just in case they decided to change the time of execution at the last minute, as they often did. I walked past Maison Thomas, on the opposite side of the street, then turned around making as though I’d forgotten something, and passed it again. I stopped at a nearby newspaper kiosk and examined the used books as though searching for a particular title. Then I bought an Al-Ahram newspaper and stood scanning its pages casually while keeping my eyes on the storefront. I watched the comings and goings, the activities around the customers’ sections, the staff performing their various tasks behind the granite counter. I switched positions, choosing another newsstand across the street, in order to observe the place from a different angle. Suddenly I heard a voice behind me.

“Tarek? Tarek al-Masri? I can’t believe it!”

I didn’t flinch. I’d learned how to check my reactions long ago. I now went by the nickname “Abu Ayman,” owner of a small perfume and herb store in Bulaq al-Dakrur. On my national ID card I was Amgad Radi. Who the hell here knew my real name?

I continued to examine the titles of used books, but all my senses were on the alert and I instinctively felt for the bayonet I had hidden beneath my gallabiya. Then it hit me, because this was a voice I could never forget or mistake for another. Her footsteps approached lightly from my left. Her face rounded the corner of my eye and then appeared in full in front of me, inspecting my face with wide eyes.

“Tarek? What are you doing here? What are these clothes you’re wearing?”

It was so hard not to soften even a little in front of Nadia’s exquisite face. It was impossible to keep my heart from beating louder, my breathing from growing more rapid, and my tongue from knotting up. As I stared at her, I caught myself wondering whether I could penetrate that mysterious gaze, “pierce it like a hymen,” before admonishing my errant mind. I cautioned myself not to yield to bodily lusts and mouthed “God keep me from Satan” three times, plus a short prayer to steady my nerves. Then I gave her a calm smile. She extended her hand to shake mine. Almost automatically, I avoided the flesh of her palm and took hold of her elbow. I shifted her to my right and steered her away from Maison Thomas. I felt a twinge of anger at myself for not shaking her hand.

“This is where we used to meet when we were young,” she said. “Do you remember?”

I nodded. As we walked, her eyes remained fixed on my beard and my gallabiya as though she were observing some alien being. Before she could pepper me with the usual questions I got from people after my return to Egypt, I told her that my financial circumstances were awkward these days. I went on about how fate had turned its back on me, how I’d lost my job and now made do with some administrative work at the Islamic Sciences Society in Imbaba.

“But why are you dressed like some imam in a mosque?”

I barely managed to keep myself from laughing out loud. She was always a tenacious one. As we turned right, onto Hassan Sabri Street, I leaned toward her ear and lowered my voice. “The police are after me, so I had to take on a disguise. Anyway, this is proper religious attire, according to the Sunna of the Prophet—”

“May peace be upon him,” she muttered, but I could tell she wasn’t satisfied. Her pace slowed as she took hold of my arm. “Let’s go someplace where we can sit down for a bit, have a cup of tea, and talk.”

“I can’t,” I said lowering my voice again. “I’m being watched.”

Her eyes widened in alarm, which suddenly aroused a sexual urge in me. I nearly wished she would reject my excuse, but after a moment of wavering, I asked her why she hadn’t taken the veil. I was sure that would put her off. Instead, she caught me off guard. “I’m glad you haven’t given up on the violin despite your circumstances.”

“Violin? No. No. That was a long time—”

“Why are you doing this, Tarek? I see the bow beneath your clothes.”

I was struck dumb. I instinctively readjusted the bayonet tied to my thigh, as I gave her a silly smile and I took a couple of steps back. I had to end this meeting, which had needlessly dredged up so many memories from the past. I could tell something in her mind clicked, but that didn’t keep her from asking with great concern why the police were after me. I concocted some story about debts I owed and sentences passed against me for paying with bad checks. Then, for no reason at all, I repeated the bit about how I was forced to disguise myself. For a moment I thought her mind had wandered and that she wasn’t listening to a word I said. It turned out she’d been listening to my innermost thoughts.

She smiled, making her face appear more radiant and youthful than her forty years, and said, “I’m divorced again, for the second time. Such is life!”

I said nothing, though my face must have lit up brighter than it had in years. Since I would never have the chance to sign my name next to hers on her third marriage certificate, I barricaded myself behind silence. I always felt inferior in her presence. Once, many years ago, I’d confessed my love to her. Her silence had been enough for me to realize she didn’t feel the same toward me, so I chose the safest path. Then she left me and married my executioner. How could I ever forgive that? Now she told me she’d gotten a second divorce from him, meaning that she had returned to him even after knowing how he treated me—surely he would have bragged about it. It was funny how I desired her now, despite this sudden surge of hatred toward her. She was always was so proud and arrogant. Now, after losing everything, she wanted me. She thought that her smile could erase her sins and make me forget everything that happened to me because of her. That’d be the day.

She pulled out a piece of paper and pen from her purse, wrote down a number, and handed it to me.

“This is the number of my private phone. In my room. No one answers it but me. Give me a call when you can. I’d love to hear from you, Tarek. And if you need anything at all. . . .”

I hesitated for a moment. Then I took the piece of paper between thumb and forefinger and plucked a phone number out of my head to give to her. I waved goodbye as I hailed the first taxi that swung around the corner. “Cairo University.” I told the driver in a loud voice as I climbed in, so as not to give her a clue where I lived. As we drove off, I swung around in my seat to watch her through the rear window. She was standing at the corner, writing down the number I’d given her in a small red notebook. She still had that puzzled look on her face.

“Who was that veilless woman who made you abandon your post?”

My emir sounded nothing like the “brother in Islam” they jabbered about 24/7, and much like an interrogator in State Security. I ignored the question as I focused on the food I was preparing in the room I shared with two other guys from our cell. They’d accompanied me on the stakeouts of Maison Thomas, which the organization had targeted because it sold booze and pork. The emir stepped closer and repeated the question, but in a less aggressive tone.

“Her name’s Nadia. She was a classmate at the university. Now she gives private piano lessons.”

As long as they were spying on me, I thought, it would be better to give them something befitting Nadia as they would see her. So I made her a graduate of the Classical Music Conservatoire. With no prompting from me, they pegged her as an upper-class lady from Zamalek. When you looked at Nadia, twenty-two years after university, what else could she be other than the Nadia they thought they saw today?

“She handed you a piece of paper. What was on it?”

“Her phone number.”

“Give it to me. And give me her full name and address.”

“I tossed the piece of paper out the window and didn’t commit it to memory. And I don’t know her full name or where she lives. That was a phase in my life I don’t want to remember, master.”

“A Copt, huh?”

“No. Muslim.” Preempting further questions, I said, “I’m fed up with your tailing me. I don’t have to work with you. I came to you of my own free will when you needed me. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

The emir continued to eye me skeptically as the four of us sat down for a meal. As I ate, my mind wandered back to my meeting with her today. What did she feel when she saw me? Did she hate me? Had she missed me? Why couldn’t I take a single step toward her when I met her? Why did I always back off, or, at best, remain rooted in place? What had I become? Such a heavy question. I’d always tried to avoid it. I was over forty, and what had I achieved? Nothing.

The answer was heavier than the question. It was horrifying and deeply depressing. I looked up and my eyes met the emir’s. I could tell he hadn’t lifted his eyes from me from the moment we sat down to eat. I took the offensive to parry the suspicion that oozed from those shiny eyeballs.

“Why don’t you trust me? Why don’t you give me a gun like the others? The bayonet almost slipped off today. I could have been—”

He held up his hand to silence me. He emitted a loud belch as he scanned the faces of the others, who never uttered a peep in his presence.

“You still have a ways to go till you reach the point where you can carry firearms. Dedication and obedience are the keys to earning trust. You haven’t given us anything to make us trust you like the others. You’re still being tested.”

I left the table angrily. They still treated me like an outsider. Their suspicions were like the floodlights in the prison courtyard that hold every speck of dust in their glare. There was no safe escape. God damn them all! I never liked them and I never trusted them. Now all I wanted was to protect myself from them. That had become my sole ambition. How sad.

The emir sounded the call to prayer. We fell in behind one of his favorites who led it. When we finished, the emir said, “Remain among the ‘restrainers of anger,’ Abu Ayman. ‘Allah sides with the patient ones.’ If you want to leave us, you’re free to do so, but only after the Maison Thomas operation, God willing.”

Apart from an exasperated sigh, I remained silent. After my release from prison in the mid-seventies, my economic circumstances went from bad to worse. I couldn’t get a public-sector job because of my record as a political criminal. So I took whatever jobs I could find, but they never lasted long. Each time I thought the worst was over, I found the world closing in on me more and more, until I felt I was about to suffocate. After leaving the Muslim Brothers, I joined the Nasserists in the hope this would land me a decent job and give me some upward mobility. It was the same reason I’d joined the Muslim Brothers to begin with, though that had only landed me in prison. The types of torture I suffered inside convinced me that even if I were damned to Hell for killing an innocent soul, my punishers down there would be more merciful than my torturers up here on earth.

The leftists welcomed me with open arms. They painted a beautiful picture of their utopia and of themselves as a noble vanguard in a society floundering between the wall of illiteracy and the bliss of ignorance. Sadat didn’t put up with them for long. A few months after I joined them, he set the police on us. In order to shield myself from prison, I turned informant and tipped off the police to the identities of the Nasserists I knew and their meeting places.

I returned to the Muslim Brothers when it became clear that the government had not only accepted but embraced them. I was scared at first, but the Brothers welcomed me back to the fold as if I were a prodigal son come to his senses. They assigned me to the “guidance and steering” branch. That was where I acquired my formal introduction to their recruiting methods and realized they’d performed the same routine on me when I was a student. It was more intricate than I’d imagined at first. It began with a scout on campus. He’d be on the lookout for introverted, dejected types, short of money and short of friends. Such traits were like recommendation letters. They would accelerate a candidate’s recruitment. Then came the screener. His task was to develop a closer familiarity with the candidates in order to select the most suitable. He was on the lookout for the qualities of obedience and loyalty, above all. Those who passed this sifting process were taken to the “educator,” the “master,” the “family officer,” and so on in the endless chain.

I recoiled into my shell when Nadia’s friends at university mocked me. One of them dubbed me “the crooner” when he learned that I loved music and played an instrument. A guy my age with a friendly face came up to me one day on campus while I was alone and brooding. He said he knew me from somewhere. I swallowed the bait easily. Bit by bit, he drew me out as we roamed the streets near Cairo University until he really did know me. By late afternoon, we’d reached the Bein al-Sarayat area. The call to prayer sounded, so we prayed together in a nearby mosque. Afterward, I realized that I didn’t even know his name.

We met again a couple of days later. He introduced me to friends of his who were students in the Faculty of Engineering. We spent a lot of time together over the following days, taking walks, sitting in coffeehouses, just hanging out and talking. They’d bring up some subject, put some questions to me, and tell me how awesome my ideas were. Little did I know that I was a lamb being fattened for the slaughter. They let me loose to frolic in the pastures of praise and attention, and the next thing I knew I had one hand on the Quran and the other on a gun as I swore eternal allegiance to our Supreme Guide.

Most radical groups are interchangeable once you look beyond their names. Except for the lefties. What most pisses me off about them is that wide fake smile of theirs when they speak to you. True, they say we Muslim Brothers have a greasy smile when we speak, but leftists are still different. They’re fussy. They won’t associate with just anyone. You have to support culture and freedom of opinion. These are the passports into their society, after which everything is negotiable. At least they don’t have the Muslim Brothers’ lethal flaw: the Brotherhood sticks its nose into every aspect of your life. Every day, it takes a broom into the nooks and crannies of your brain to sweep out the dust of ideas that belong to others.

I struggled for years against a relentless world. My financial situation grew worse and worse. I became like a stray dog: finding a meal in a garbage can one day, being pelted with stones by pedestrians the next just for getting too close to them on the pavement. The government at the time was encouraging young men to fly off to Afghanistan and Pakistan to fight the jihad against the Soviet Union. It selected some, then looked the other way as they slipped across the borders to those destinations. Abbas Mahalawi came to mind as someone who could assist me. His picture was in all the papers. He was the “strongman” in the National Democratic Party. Surely he could help me in some way—maybe give me a favorable mention in the quarters that counted. I was reluctant at first, but as every other alternative evaporated I felt I had no other choice. By some miracle, I managed to convince them to allow me into the NDP building on the corniche next to the Hilton. They wouldn’t allow me to use the elevator so I had to climb seven floors on foot. Sweating and gasping for breath, I told his office manager I wanted to see “Abbas Pasha.” The guy stared down a nose wrinkled in disgust. Pointing to the door, he said, “Go to the end of the hall. Health and social services are on the right.”

I told him that I wasn’t ill and didn’t need health services. I was there to meet Abbas Pasha. He ignored me for over an hour, occupying himself with this and that. When boredom nearly drove me over the edge, I wrote down my name in full on a slip of paper, went up to the office manager’s desk, lowered my voice, and said, “Tell the pasha that Tarek, the nephew of his brother Hassanein, is here.”

I returned to my place and sat down again, confidently placing one leg over the other. The plan worked. Holding the slip of paper I’d given him, the office manager entered Abbas’s office and stayed in there a long time. Finally, he reappeared with a bright smile on his face. I stood up, ready to be taken into the office of Abbas Mahalawi. Instead, the office manager took hold of my elbow and escorted me to the door. He stuffed an envelope into my pocket and said, “The pasha says take this hundred pounds to see you through and never show your face here again.”

So back I went to the Muslim Brotherhood and resumed my routine in “Guidance and Steering.” My sole wish now was to go to Pakistan. And why not? There were so many stories going around about young men who went off to fight the jihad and earned tons of money without dying. That dream seemed within reach: flying off to wage some jihad. I’d fight in the ranks of those crazies for as long as I could bear it; then I’d grab my pay and fly to Europe, where I’d open a restaurant, with musicians entertaining diners every night.

I confided my dream to an official in my branch. He gave me the standard sticky smile and referred me to the next higher up, who told me my idea was the work of the devil, who had blinded me until the whole world turned black before my eyes. Within a few weeks, thanks to their help, I was on a plane to the Arabian Peninsula. I found work as a salesman and an accountant in an herb and spice shop. There was no music here. It was probably taboo, which made no difference, because sorrow and pain had drummed that special part of me out of my mind.

While in Riyadh, the Brothers introduced me to a guy called Abu Ayman, whose nom de guerre I’d eventually adopt. He was the one who persuaded me to join his organization, al-Gamaa al-Islamiya. What did I have to lose? Unlike all the others, he promised me houris and rivers of gold and silver in this world, not just in the hereafter. So I stuck with him. After a few months, we left the arid paradise of Riyadh for a wretched Yemeni hell, where I was assigned to the Gamaa’s training camp in the desert. Compared to that torment, the lapping flames of the Muslim Brotherhood back home were like balsam on both body and mind. I tried to get out of it, but that was not an option. The threat in their voice was palpable. I knew without being told that no one left there without their permission, except in a coffin. I took extra care to watch my back.

Eventually I grew accustomed to the routine in the Qadisiya camp. It was round-the-clock military and moral training. The latter involved memorizing the Quran, studying prescribed interpretations of Prophetic Hadith, and listening to countless histories of the Companions of the Prophet and the deeds they performed to spread the power and glory of Islam. Every other day, we received a lecture on how to strengthen resolve and build fortitude.

I saw myself staring into space on that endless expanse of sand. To my right, an elderly camel with half-closed eyes munched on some wild grasses as though intent on sucking every last bit of juice out of them. He was so meek and patient. If I had his patience, I’d be riding him around the desert for the next twenty years, while the rest of the world sped toward the twenty-first century. I heaved a sigh. I hated the desert and everything to do with it. I spent three lean years there. My beard grew down to my belly button; my face withered beyond recognition. I’d become a stranger to myself.

Once again, that heavy question assailed me: what have you achieved, Tarek? I couldn’t bring myself to admit that the sum total was a big fat zero, like the rear end of the emir who had his back turned to me now while talking on the phone in a low voice. All I wanted was to return to myself. But I couldn’t. Time and change had followed me down my circuitous path, erasing the traces that would guide me back. Every group I joined believed it was the most righteous, the most worthy of allegiance, the rightful heir to the caliphate. I no longer cared how right or wrong they were. I just wanted money. I wanted enough to cushion me against misfortune. I wanted to be able to live in peace, but these people were not the sort who simply wave goodbye and let you move on. They’d kill me if they even suspected me of planning to take the exit ramp. Al-Gamaa al-Islamiya gave me a place to live and some money after I lost all my savings during an American strike against our camp. Everything was burnt to a crisp: money, arms, munitions, people. Abu Ayman died in a huge explosion. My tutor in the manufacture of firebombs, time bombs that you set using washing machine timers, nail bombs, and other IEDs was blown to bits, like he’d done to others dozens of times. I managed to survive, carrying with me the expertise I’d acquired from him. I was picked up by another member of the organization, who came across me roaming the streets of Sanaa. Instead of sending me to a safe house, he invited me to stay in his home for a while. When he learned of the knowledge I’d stored in my head, his eyes lit up as though he’d just struck gold. He sent me back to Cairo to meet the emir of al-Gamaa al-Islamiya in Giza and I became his follower, even though he was at least two years younger than me.

“You’re never satisfied,” the emir said, interrupting my thoughts. Giving me a haughty look, he repeated it again to make sure all his acolytes were paying close attention. He listed the many favors he had performed for me and the gifts of money I’d received from him and the group.

I responded in the same arrogant tone. “I am the best bomb maker in the country. I have a right to—”

“You have no rights!” he shouted. “You are a part of a group. You have the same rights and duties as everyone else. If you don’t fall in line, you’re out. You have one day to come to your senses. After that, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!”

After the emir left, the others went to sleep early as usual. Like a dog with its tail between its legs, I crept into a corner and lay down on my side, placing one hand beneath my cheek, leaving the other free to pick my nose and wipe the snot on my gallabiya. My thoughts returned again to that question that haunted me like my shadow. My whole life and all my ambitions had been reduced to my meals and mattress in this suffocating room. I’d become like an animal in a pen that only thought of two things: food and sleep. I didn’t even have Uncle Salem to return to. He was the one who’d reported me to the police in order to keep them from finding out about his gambling den. According to my mother, he was just like my father. The Muslim Brothers said he’d erred and should be guided back to the right path. Al-Gamaa al-Islamiya said he was a heretic and should be killed. I simply hated him and wished him dead, along with many others. But they didn’t die. If I killed the people who persecuted and oppressed me, society would damn me as a terrorist. If those tyrants continued to rule us, hundreds of terrorists would rise around us with every passing day.

I should have stayed with the leftists. If only I hadn’t betrayed them. At least they were peace loving. I could probably have found some administrative job with a cultural newspaper or with one of their political parties and stayed below the government’s radar. Here, with the champions of “Islam is the solution,” I couldn’t even find a solution to my simplest problems. I took out my wallet and extracted the slip of paper Nadia had given me. I spread it open and read the number a few times to commit it to memory. Then I burned the paper and smiled in the light of the small flame. The smile remained incomplete.